


Enders Switch

by gypsymuse



Category: X-Files - Fandom
Genre: Adventure, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-06
Updated: 2010-05-06
Packaged: 2017-10-09 08:24:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gypsymuse/pseuds/gypsymuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you do when everything you are lies in ashes at your feet?  Post-ep for <i>The End</i> (5X20).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enders Switch

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: This is another old story that I've resurrected for the purpose of archiving it here. Post-ep for _The End _(5X20), Scully POV throughout, and rated M for content in later chapters. Originally posted in spring of 1998.

Author's Note: This is another old story that I've resurrected for the purpose of archiving it here. Post-ep for _The End _(5X20), Scully POV throughout, and rated M for content in later chapters. Originally posted in spring of 1998.

The usual disclaimers apply: the characters herein are property of Chris Carter and 1013 Productions, and the author of this work just does it for fun.

* * *

Enders Switch

By Gypsymuse

The smell. Oh, God, that smell was the worst--the smell of burnt things, of dead things, of five years gone in a night. A panoply of things, all laid waste: heaps of ash that once were files, curled and blackened photos, the blistered enamel of the file cabinets, the charred oak of desk and table, the bitter tang of burned leather. And underlying it all, I imagined I could scent the faint, acrid whiff of Morley smoke.

Everything about the scene was wrong, surreal, impossible. The only illumination came from the harsh emergency lights in the hallways and the hypnotic red-blue strobing the source of which my benumbed brain couldn't begin to identify. I stumbled forward like a sleepwalker, sloshing through puddles of sodden debris, the blinking glare washing the ruins of my life in grotesque carnival colors. The bitter reek of Their trump coiled into my nostrils, slinking little adders poisoning me. My fists clenched convulsively on nothing at all. I turned.

Mulder. He had stopped halfway into the room and now stood, silent and expressionless, eyes frighteningly blank. In that moment I knew--as if I'd never known before--that all was lost unless I acted, and quickly. Mulder. All and everything lay in ashes at our feet. Mulder. In the blank black chasms of his eyes I could see only the dimming death of my last hope--our last hope.

Somehow I forced my legs to move, carrying me across the divide, knowing already that there was no solace there, either to be given or received--but knowing also, with a certainty that cut me to my very marrow, that I had to try. Moving as if through deep water I closed the distance, reached him, reached out. My hands closed around his rigid biceps; my head came to rest against his chest. I no longer had the strength to stand alone. He did not move to return the embrace; still and chill as granite he remained, as I listened to the too-slow thump of his heartbeat ticking like a deathwatch beneath my ear.

What might have been several centuries later Skinner stepped into the room, accompanied by a trio of briskly efficient EMTs. One of them gently extricated Mulder from my grasp, prying away my fingers which had long since locked into position. I staggered bonelessly, separated from my rock; the EMT, trained to handle swooning survivors, caught me neatly under the arms as Skinner stepped forward, rasping out my name in what for him passed as a tone of grave concern. I gave him an I'm-fine flap of a hand and he stood down, face hardened into an unreadable mask, hands fisted uselessly at his sides. My concerns in this lifetime had narrowed down to my partner, who was being probed unresistingly by the other two techs. I heard his name spoken aloud; eventually it registered that I was the one who had spoken it.

"He's in shock, ma'am," one of the techs informed me, and something in me snapped. Strength coursed back into my limbs and I wrenched free of my supporter, reaching Mulder in three short steps.

"I can see that, dammit! I'm this man's personal physician; let him go."

"Agent Scully--"

The look I gave my superior could have rekindled the fire. Resigned, Skinner turned to leave, indicating to the techs with the subtlest of gestures that their safest course of action would be to follow my orders. When the sound of their footfalls had died away down the hall, I returned my attention to Mulder. Whipping off my coat I draped it across his shoulders, my arm staying around him as if that pathetic gesture might impart some heat back into him. Those dead eyes fell upon mine and blinked, finally seeing me. Finally.

"Gone," he whispered, and his lack of affect chilled me anew. "It's all gone, Scully; there's nothing left for us here." One hand came up and pulled my encircling arm free. "Take me home," he finished simply, and turned his back upon the smouldering corpse of our work.

I hastened to comply.

Back in the motor pool Crown Victoria, heater cranked to maximum in defiance of the warm spring evening beyond the closed windows. Mulder huddled in the passenger seat, still wrapped in my coat, head lolling sideways against the glass. His left hand was in the process of grinding the bones of my right to powder as I akwardly piloted the ungainly land-yacht one-handed. We spoke not at all until the time came when I would've made the turn to take us back to Alexandria and his apartment; then his icy fingers squeezed me even harder as the single negative syllable emerged from between his bloodless lips.

"Where?" I asked, coasting to the side of the road. He lifted his head slowly, seeming to be desperately trying to jumpstart his flagging intellect.

"It isn't safe," he pronounced, voice sounding rusty and distant. "I'm sure the office wasn't the only stop on their evening's itinerary. Are you okay to drive, Scully?"

"Drive where?"

He sank back into the seat, closing his eyes.

"Does it matter? Just drive."

Aiming us roughly south, I drove.

The clock on the dash read 3:19 as I pulled into the lot of the dilapidated little motel. Stirring slightly, Mulder enquired as to our present whereabouts.

"I don't know. We're at a motel called--" I scanned around for a sign, "--the Fiesta Pines Motor Court."

"Doesn't look all that festive," he grunted, struggling upright. "You see any pines?"

A straggling shrub near the rental office was the only object visible that even remotely fit the descriptor. Shrugging, Mulder got out and weaved his drunken, bedraggled way into the office. He reappeared to clamber back into the car and toss the key--"key", singular--into my lap.

"According to Mr. Bates in there, we're all the way at the far end. I've paid us up through Wednesday. Checkout time is at twelve." He paused. "Think Skinner's gonna mind us taking a little R and R?"

I passed over that remark in favor of other, more important matters. "Did you happen to find out where we are?"

"Oh, yeah--a little armpit of a burg with the picturesque and somehow appropriate name of Enders Switch, North Carolina. However, it isn't quite the remote outpost of civilization that it appears; Normie assures me that there is a 24-hour Wal-Mart Superstore about six miles up this road, which can supply all of our basic necessities."

Something in my face must have registered, because Mulder chuckled dryly and patted my hand. "Don't worry; I've got my American Express.

"I never leave the scene of a crime without it."

I couldn't have picked a place more perfectly matched to our dismal moods if I'd tried. The Fiesta Pines Motor Court was a rathole deathtrap even by Mulder's less-than-discriminating standards. Our suite was lavishly appointed in Early Garage Sale, with mismatched particleboard furnishings cheaply veneered in chipped faux walnut. Every surface bore testimony to forty-odd years' worth of condensation rings from glasses, burns made by cigarettes left to smoulder forgotten, keys tossed carelessly to gouge and scratch. The air was stuffy and stale, ghosted with the odors of sweat and hopelessness. The color scheme was an appealing melange of yuck brown, rust and avocado. There was a single, lumpy full-sized bed--complete with Magic Fingers, I noticed--two unrelated chairs, a hideous credenza, two nightstands--also from different families--and two lamps, one wall-mounted and one a wobbly torchiere. A television set that was almost an antique, albeit not a very desirable one, was bolted to the wall across from the bed. A black rotary phone squatted like a spider on the nightstand nearest the door.

"Nice digs," Mulder drawled, flopping backwards onto the bed. "From now on you get to pick out all our accomodations."

By some miracle of Providence, the atrocious bathroom actually featured hot running water, so I left Mulder to rest on the bed while I showered. He took my place when I came out, and I stepped outside and sank into one of the dusty patio chairs that flanked our door.

The night had turned cooler and seemed unearthly still to my city-bred ears. There were few cars, few lights; a clear black sky arced above me, flung lavishly with stars like diamonds strewn across a jeweler's black velvet drape. Only the faintest breeze stirred the trees nearby and the soft rustling sound provided a lush countermelody to the nightsongs of crickets. High overhead the waning moon cast its cold eye upon me, leaching the colors out of the landscape.

As if on cue, Mulder appeared in the doorway. He gazed up at the moon for a moment before declaiming, quietly:

"Cold-hearted orb

that rules the night;

removes the colors from our sight

Red is gray and yellow, white

but we decide which is right--

and which is an illusion."

Having delivered his speech, he dragged the other chair over close to mine and settled in. Dressed only in his jeans and still damp from the shower, he exuded the faint scent of the sliver of no-name soap thoughtfully provided by the management. That scent, and his close proximity, were all but overwhelming. My body was fairly singing from fatigue and nerves; my earlier adrenaline rush had departed, leaving me jittery and exhausted. I could find no idea more appealing than crawling into Mulder's lap, pillowing my head on his shoulder, and hoping that when I woke up this nightmare would be over.

I didn't, of course. I remained in my chair, staring out at nothing, trying to capture and articulate at least one of the myriad jumbled thoughts that bounced off the walls of my brain with all the force and snap of billiard balls after a hard break. Just as at last I caught one, Mulder apparently did the same; we turned avidly upon each other, and when we spoke the words, we did so in one voice:

"I'm leaving the Bureau."

And then we just goggled at one another, stupidly, like owls.

"I can't be a party to this any longer," I said in a rush, recovering. "I won't be jerked around by these bastards, and I'm damned if I'll be partnered with anyone else."

He nodded. He knew.

"All the official channels are closed to us now--and I'll be damned if I'll accept reassignment to some pissant, jerk-off detail. I refuse to be handed desk-duty as a bad conduct prize."

"You will keep up the search, won't you?" The answer to that question had somehow become of overmastering importance.

"We were so close. I can't give up now. I have to find that boy." He studied his hands, then spoke again in a detached, diffident tone. "What about you? Will you go into private practice now, do you think?"

I could only stare at him, speechless. Astonishment quickly flared into rage.

"Jesus, Mulder! What the Hell are you thinking? God, do you really think I can just--just walk away like the past five years never happened?"

"I should think you'd be only too happy for an opportunity to bail."

I was so furious it was easy to ignore the utter wretchedness of his voice.

"Fuck you, Fox Mulder," I hissed, pushing up out of my chair. "If you could think that for one minute then you obviously know nothing about me."

Iron fingers closing around my wrist effectively prevented me slamming back into the room. "Don't walk away from me, Scully," he implored, and his low voice stopped me as surely as his hand.

I stopped, but I didn't speak; and I wouldn't look him in the eye.

"Scully." The grip on my wrist relaxed, became more a caress than a restraint. "You'd do that? You'd continue on with me?"

"Mulder," I sighed, looking down into his upturned earnest face. His eyes had lost their scary emptiness; they were wide and alight now with something far more terrifying. "This stopped being just your quest a long time ago. I'm in this thing to the end. I want the answers just as badly as you do. I need them, Mulder. I need to know the truth."

His hand slipped down to grasp mine--much as I'd seen him grasping Diana Fowley's hand what already felt like a lifetime ago. He held me, with his warm hand and his warm gaze, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his expressive lips, until the intensity of it all became too much and I had to look away.

"Still partners?" he asked me.

"Always, Mulder," I replied, giving his hand a squeeze. "Always."

We had shared a bed before. Long late nights in lost lonely places had led us into close proximity more than once. We'd never discussed it; it was never an issue. There was no false modesty between us, and our trust in each other was implicit. We shared rooms and beds as easily and unremarkably as we shared apartment keys, desserts, rental cars.

We had shared a bed before, but never under circumstances quite like these.

Having had no opportunity to pack for out impromptu vacation, I had nothing in which to sleep but the clothes I was wearing. Correctly assessing the source of my quandary, Mulder wordlessly tossed me his t-shirt and I repaired to the bathroom to don it. It smelled comfortingly of him, of detergent and sweat and Mulder. He was stretched out on the bed, clad in plain gray boxers, when I returned. Grinning at me with a ghost of his usual humor, he fed two quarters into the Magic Fingers and beckoned me to join him. The ancient bed bucked and rattled, more like a decrepit old car in its

death-throes than a massage unit. Our eyes met and we both began to giggle; within moments we were laughing somewhat hysterically, the tension and the horror of the day finally catching up to us and spilling forth in a rush of desperate hilarity. I rolled over, laughing convulsively, bumping into him inadvertently; he threw an arm around me and drew me to him, muffling his gasps in my hair as I shook helplessly in his arms.

We got hold of ourselves by degrees as the bed's motion faltered and stopped. Drawing apart we remained facing each other in the faulty blue light of the flickering silenced TV. Mulder reached out and tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear, letting his hand trail lightly across my cheek as he pulled it back. Another tremor rippled through me, this one unrelated to my previous giggling fit.

"Quite a pair, aren't we, Scully?"

"We're something," I agreed, trying hard not to betray my cool exterior under the onslaught of those incredible eyes. To keep from drowning I tipped my head forward, resting my forehead against his, letting my eyes slip shut. Basking in our shared silence, I had time to let my mind roam forward.

Despite the efforts of many, this was not the end--not of our partnership, not even of the X-Files. I knew Mulder well enough to know that every file, every meaningless scrap of information once housed in our now-gutted office, had its own cadre of clones, secreted about here and there. A quick call to the Gunmen in the morning would begin the process of retrieval. And then? Our resignations from the FBI would mean certain official doors were closed to us forever...but also that certain others, still unknown to me, would swing wide. My spooky partner had his ways, and his sources; and I had all the faith in the world in them, and in him, and in myself as well. We were, indeed, quite a pair.

"Mulder?"

"Yeah?"

I could feel his breath on my lips, mingling with my own. I paused, considering all the questions I wanted to ask, all the possibilities before us; but in the end, I merely sighed and reached across him to thumb the TV's off button, leaving us in darkness.

"Never mind. It can wait till morning."

"In the morning," he echoed, drawing the worn sheet tightly up around us.

And then he kissed me.

~~END~~

Mulder's poem is "Late Lament," written by Graeme Edge of the Moody Blues and recorded as a spoken bridge in the band's 1967 song "Nights In White Satin."


	2. Day Two

 

Frohike, Byers and Langly appeared mysteriously around two o'clock of the afternoon following the night before, a trio of malignant genies bearing an odd assortment of fulfilled wishes. I can only assume Mulder called them that morning while I was showering; I was half afraid to ask. But they arrived, just as we were clearing away the remains of a late lunch, stalking in with muttered greetings and arms overflowing with boxes, papers, file folders and sundry other bits of miscellanea. Frohike dropped a box onto the swaybacked credenza, rooted around in it, and then presented me with my laptop, with all the ceremony of a vassal presenting tribute to a conquering king.

"How did you--" I began, and stopped myself. His eyes were like thunder clouds in his gnomish face. "I take it back. I don't want to know. But thank you."

He grunted and made for the door, leaving me to wonder why no one had ever bothered to tell him that fingerless gloves had gone out of fashion in the 80s.

"I'm not even going to ask how you two got yourselves into this predicament," Byers said, in tones of freezing disapproval. Langly chimed in, seconding the emotion.

"Dude, you are way more trouble than you're worth."

Frohike returned with another armload, which he deposited none too gently on the bed.

"You skulk off in the dead of night and then the very next morning we get a wake-up call from East Bumfuck Arkansas and a 'Hey, guys, if it's not too much trouble, could you drive six hours and bring me copies of all my case files from the last ten years?' Jesus H. Christ on a skateboard." He shook his head at the indignity of it all.

Mulder endured the triune tirade, obviously not the first such he'd ever heard, with folded arms and a faint smirk. When they had exhausted themselves with bringing things in and bitching us out, he spoke.

"We really do appreciate this, you guys."

"Yeah, right," Langly snorted. "So did they can your asses or did you quit?"

"Neither--yet," he informed them, "but drafting our letters of resignation is tops on this evening's agenda. Make yourselves comfortable and we'll tell you all about it."

They did. And we did.

"You're gonna owe us big-time for this," Langly said darkly. "I'm talking forever and ever amen here, my man."

"Fine--whatever--so long as we can count on you."

Frohike approached Mulder, looking for all the world like a rat terrier squaring off against a Doberman. "Say it," he insisted, glaring.

"Frohike--"

"SAY IT!"

The look on my partner's face resembled that of a mutinous child forced to eat a double helping of cauliflower. He drew a deep breath and growled those little words Frohike longed to hear:

"Your kung-fu is the best."

"And don't you forget it, punk-ass."

The troll departed, dragging his constituents with him.

"Would you mind telling me what that was all about?"

Mulder peered at me over the top of a file folder. "They're just pissed off because I dragged them out before they'd fulfilled their morning's quota of bong hits. They'll get over it. This is the most excitement they've seen in years."

"Too much excitement, if you ask me. Mulder, we can't just stay holed up in here forever--we need a plan of action!"

"That's what I love about you, Scully; you're so direct. For your information I am formulating a plan of action, even as we speak."

"How wonderful for you. Care to fill me in?"

"All in good time. I've got more research to do first. Could you pass me the Pop-Tarts, please?"

With a combination of judicious engineering and what could only be described as sorcery, the Gunmen had managed to establish an Internet link for us through my laptop. A small flatbed scanner and a portable printer rounded out our electronic arsenal. Per Frohike's terse instructions I logged on under the unlikely name of "She-Ra" and went about my assigned task of setting up web-based e-mail accounts for us. Once I had them established, I added our various other addresses (my two and Mulder's six) so that we could pop messages from the respective servers.

"Mulder?"

"Hmmm?"

"How many ridiculous e-mail lists are you on, anyway?"

He looked up at me. "Are you reading my mail, Scully?"

"Absolutely not. I value my sanity too highly. But combined, from your six accounts, you've got one thousand, three hundred and ninety-two messages. I presume the ones designated as being from lists called 'sexdog' and 'lick' can be dismissed as having no bearing on the present case."

If I were a lesser woman, the smile that spread across his face then would've rendered me unconscious. As it was, I merely raised an ironic eyebrow and awaited the inevitable quip, which was not long in coming.

"Actually, I'm not on either of those lists; they're invitation-only. Think you could put in a good word for me?"

"I can think of a lot of words for you, Mulder, but I'm not sure I'd classify any of them as 'good'. Do you want to come take a look at these?"

He abandoned his paper chase to come stand behind me, one hand on my shoulder, reading over the top of my head. His other hand closed over my right, guiding the trackball, rapidly marking messages to be deleted unread.

So much for the boundaries of personal space.

Mulder has kissed me in the past, before last night.

After I was diagnosed with my cancer, Mulder the obscure metamorphosed overnight into the most effusively demonstrative of men. For awhile there he was petting me and kissing me even more than my mother--but unlike with my mother I couldn't read the intent underlying his caresses so easily. At the time I was hardly in a position to subject his behavior to much analysis, preoccupied as I was with the business of dying. During the months between my initial diagnosis and my final hospitalization, the number of his casual touches nearly quadrupled from the average. Not a day went by that he didn't find some opportunity to smooth my hair, stroke my arm, rub my aching shoulders, squeeze my hand. He called me constantly when we were apart, ostensibly to reassure me of this whereabouts--but I suspected those calls were even more designed to reassure him, as my words never did, that I was fine, still alive, still with him. He dropped by my apartment often, in the evenings and on weekends, and never took his leave without embracing me, sometimes dropping a kiss on the crown of my head or my brow as well. He was marginally more circumspect around the Hoover Building, but not by much.

During my last hospitalization, it seemed all the barriers dropped in the face of what then looked inevitable. Following his ironic resurrection from the "dead", he was in my room more than he was home or in the office--that is, when he wasn't out beating the bushes for the key to my cure. Upon arrival he would seat himself on the edge of my bed, enfold my hand in his, and kiss me--on the forehead, hand, cheek, wherever. He did so in front of my mother, my brother, my cousins and grandparents, friends and neighbors, God and the saints and Skinner. No hesitation, no diffidence; he clung to my side like a burr and I clung to him like...a lifeline. He was my lifeline, in those dark days, far more so than any of the machinery of preservation that urged my failing body onward.

I couldn't help wondering, somewhere in the back of my mind, what all these overt displays of affection meant; but there was never a right time to ask, and after the chip was implanted that gave me my life back, I was too busy coming to grips with my own resurrection to care. As I regained my strength and life began to resume its routines, the professional distance began to reassert itself between us, and our shared caresses became fewer. By the time I noticed the passing of our odd intimacy, it was impossible for me to move to regain lost ground. By that time I had discovered, and lost, my daughter, and in the aftermath I found myself helpless to stop the walls from rising anew, separating me not only from Mulder but also from myself and a life, so hard won, that had begun to hurt unbearably.

It had been so long since I'd felt Mulder's lips on me that I...Hell, I'm still lying to myself. I'd never forgotten what they felt like; I'd only tried to forget, just as I'd tried to stop myself wondering how those lips would feel on my own.

I found out last night. Now it was just a matter of wondering what it meant.

Hours passed. How many, I couldn't tell you; the natural progression of time ceases while you're net-surfing. Between us we must have sent out a hundred e-mails, to sources within and without the government, the medical and psychiatric communities, and of course, to that paranoid underground with which Mulder was so deeply connected. We accessed databases beyond number, pored over abstracts of arcane research until the letters blurred and danced before our eyes, downloaded articles and charts, graphs and scans, stuffed our brains until the information fairly leaked from our ears.

"Dammit!" Mulder shoved away from the makeshift workstation, frustration writ large in every line of his face. "We're not getting any closer like this." Taking off his glasses, he scrubbed the heels of his hands over his eyes before plunging his fingers into his hair, gripping his head as though trying to keep it anchored.

"It's him, Scully," he went on, head hanging, speaking into his chest. "Gibson is the key. We have to find him."

"I know." Moving to where he slumped, I placed my hands tentatively on his shoulders, kneading the knotted muscles there. With a groan he went boneless under my hands, rolling his head from side to side before throwing it back, resting it against my belly. My hands stilled, then moved up to work the sinews of his neck, his temples, pushing the thick hair away from his face. I gazed down, seeing his familiar features oddly and intriguingly inverted. "I know, but there's nothing more we can do tonight. It's late, Mulder; you must be exhausted. We need to rest."

His eyes flickered open and found mine, the golden glints in them flashing in the inadequate light like koi darting amongst leaves in a still autumnal pool. He reached up, took my hands from his head, caught them in a clasp at the base of his throat. Just for a moment, I almost forgot how to breathe.

"You're right," he murmured. "It's late." He stood, and turned, and looked dead at me.

"Come to bed, Scully," he said.

I stopped breathing altogether.

 


	3. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where we start to earn our M rating.

 

* * *

Heat.

I became aware of this before anything else registered: moist, enveloping heat, radiant, almost suffocating. It took a moment before the clouds began to disperse sufficiently from my sleep-drugged mind that I could discern the source of that heat--a body stretched alongside my own, rolled up in the sheets and pressed hard against me, a long arm draped across me following the curve of my own arm, fingers wrapped loosely around my wrist. The hard bones of narrow hips were pushed into the accomodating curve of my buttocks; firm muscle provided a prop for my back; and a head, a very familiar head crowned with a mass of dark thick hair, had insinuated itself into the crook between my neck and shoulder. He was hot, as if fevered, glazed sticky with sweat, redolent of the faint musky-spicy aroma that was the distinctive flavor of his skin.

In that twilight place between sleep and wakefulness, I found myself immobilized--confused, afraid to move. Mulder was in my bed. Why he was in my bed was a mystery. And there was another mystery, even greater than the first:

Why didn't I mind that he was in my bed?

Of the multiplicity of nicknames assigned to me since I left Quantico and joined Mulder on the X-Files, the one that I always found simultaneously the most amusing and the most irritating was "Saint Scully"--an epithet I earned presumably because I alone had the mettle to put up with "Spooky" and his psychoses on a daily basis. Saint Scully and the Spook: my whole life distilled down to a phrase that sounded like the name of an unbearably cheesy sitcom and generally employed by disaffected Bureau underdogs envious of our solve rate, our reputation or--particularly in the case of certain of the secretarial pool and a couple of hyperhormoned young male agents--our undeniable bond. The usual office politics; Mulder and I laughed hysterically over such things, making lists of the various terms of derision heard applied to us around the hallowed halls of the J Edgar Hoover building.

I am no saint--and Mulder notwithstanding, I can't figure out how I could've gotten such a reputation. I used to smoke my mom's cigarettes and sneak guys into my dorm room. I had a fake ID so I could go to clubs with Missy. I frequently got in skirmishes on the playground; I beat the snot out of Cheryl Ledbetter in fourth grade for making fun of my freckles, and I even got suspended once in ninth grade because I socked Mark Hooper in the eye in the middle of math class. (He had it coming to him, too, I might add.) I defied my parents' wishes by becoming an FBI field agent instead of going into private practice or staying on at Quantico as an instructor. I couldn't tell you how many speeding tickets I've gotten--although I'd wager Mulder's gotten more. I curse frequently and imaginatively. I've even smoked pot a couple of times...and unlike the President, I very definitely inhaled.

Saints do not shoot people. Saints do not get drunk and get tattooed and go home with strange men. Saints do not rough up suspects, or hold their bosses at gunpoint, break every rule of Bureau protocol and most of the major laws of the land. But I have, and suspect I will do so again. My continued

survival seems predicated on it.

I am no saint; but sometimes I wonder if Mulder realizes it. God knows I've done everything I could in the past five years to convince him that I'm indestructible. I never wanted him to feel he had to protect me; even more so, I never wanted to fall into the trap of wanting him to feel that. Now I'm beginning to question my judgment in that area. Perhaps if I'd made him cognizant early on that I am indeed flesh and blood, we might have satisfactorily concluded this dance of ours long before now.

Full consciousness slowly returned, bringing with it remembrance of the events of the past few days, including my present whereabouts and how I came to have a sweaty, half-naked Mulder wrapped around me.

Make that a sweaty, half-naked, and fully erect Mulder wrapped around me.

At least, I consoled myself, he's aware of me as a woman while he's unconscious--unless he was dreaming of miniskirted porno nurses. But at least it was a start.

My violent reaction to seeing him with Diana Fowley had brought home to me, with rather more force than I would've liked, the realization that something had to give. I'd been the Queen of Denial for a long time, but somehow my barge was sinking and my time of reckoning was nigh. As much as I despise cliche, I had inadvertently found myself in the middle of the tiredest, oldest one in the book: How do you tell your best friend that you've fallen in love with him?

I was contemplating this asinine, embarassing dilemma when Mulder suddenly shifted in his sleep. Muttering something near my ear that sounded suspiciously like my name, he tightened his arm around me and nestled his erection even more firmly into the crack of my ass.

It was about this time that I began thinking that showing him might be even more effective than telling him.

My God, has it really been over a year since I've even been in the same room with an erect penis?

I scootched my lower half back, wriggling just a bit, increasing the contact. My initial estimation placed him at around six and three-quarters inches, though I thought further investigation would be required for certainty's sake. I pushed back and up, back and down--several times, experimentally--and was rewarded by the initiation of definite thrusting motions on his part, along with a groan that unmistakeably contained my name.

His hand released my wrist and stroked blindly along the length of my arm. He persisted in rubbing against me, his breathing starting to change, and it occurred to me that decisive action must be taken on my part lest the battle be lost before I'd even begun to fight. I'd faced down government assassins, mutants beyond number, the darkest depravities of the human psyche and my own mortality; so why did it take every ounce of courage I possessed just to roll over and take the person closest to me in the world into my arms?

I rolled, molding my body to the length of his, running my hand over his band and down to increase the pressure where it would do us both the most good. He nudged me, his whole pelvis plastered up against mine, his lips hot beneath my ear. And then he went tense and rigid in my arms.

"Scully?" he whispered. "Are you awake?" His tone clearly indicated his desire for a negative response.

Too late now, I thought, and jumped.

"No," I said, and drew his mouth down to mine.

I was never quite sure how Mulder felt about me.

I knew he trusted me, implicitly, as I trusted him. And I knew he loved me, of course; I've known that for years, and was reasonably certain that he knew that love was reciprocated. What I could never be quite sure of was what form that love took.

His taste in reading and viewing material had provoked in me certain undignified sensations of physical inadequacy--which I could only pray I'd never betrayed in word or deed. That was too humiliating a possibility to contemplate. The real-life women I'd seen him attracted to provided me nothing by way of assurance either, as all of them displayed certain qualities I very obviously lacked--height, for instance. Sure he bantered and flirted and teased with me a lot, and sure those kinds of "jokes" are often covers for deeper and more dangerous truths; but we'd never discussed it, and he'd never made an obvious move, and so I was left to wonder. There was always a part of me that was morbidly convinced that he viewed me as a sort of Samantha-surrogate; that by moving heaven and earth, time and again, to save me he could in some way atone for his inability to save her.

But then I kissed him, and after an initial instants' shock he was kissing me back; and that kiss made a believer of me.

"I was asleep," he murmured, his words tumbling over each other in a rush. "I was asleep, I was dreaming about you. I always dream about you. And then I was awake, and you were with me, and I--oooh, shit, Scully, don't do that."

Reluctantly I moved my hand to higher ground. "Don't you want me--"

"I'm amazed that you even have to ask that question. I don't want me to--"

I silenced him with my fingers, running them over his lips as I'd done a thousand times in my own dreams. "You talk too much, Mulder."

"I just--I don't--Scully, I just want you to be sure. We can't go back...I don't want--ooooh, Jesus."

It was a watershed moment: I, Dana Scully, had succeeded in reducing my scary-smart Oxford-grad partner to preadolescent incoherence. I suppose the things I was doing with my tongue at that point had something to do with it, but I'd like to believe it was just me. I paused for a moment, tilting his face so that he had no choice but to meet my eyes.

"Mulder. Do you want to make love with me or not?"

"There is nothing in this world or any other that I want more." His voice, and his expression, were so earnest I felt my heart twist. "I've been in love with you for so long I can't even remember a time when I wasn't. But you have to be sure--Scully, I don't want this to be just a--a one-shot deal."

"Neither do I." How to reassure this sad, scarred man? I didn't even know where to begin. "I am sure, Mulder; I just never knew about you. I was afraid..."

"What we have...what we are, to each other...I was afraid, too. I still am."

"I think," said I, moving my hand southward once more, "that we have an awful lot of lost time to start making up for."

"Scully." His voice was intent, ragged. "I need to know--I won't risk this for anything less than--everything."

I knew this, of course; one of the reasons I'd held my peace for so long was the very real fear that if I once gave way, he would consume me utterly. From this new perspective, however, it seemed he was likely in just as much danger of being consumed as I ever could be.

Let it happen, then. It wouldn't be the first time we'd walked through fire together.

"Do you think I'd risk it for anything less? I love you, Mulder. That's the one thing I am sure of."

"Love me, Scully," he choked. "Love me."

I'd barely gotten a good start on doing just that when my damned cell phone rang.

"Ignore it!" Mulder wailed.

"I can't! It might be the Gunmen! It might be--important."

"Shit," he moaned, rolling onto his back and throwing an arm over his eyes. I lunged across him and snagged the offending instrument from the nightstand, barking a less-than-enthusiastic hello.

There was silence at the other end.

"Hello? Dammit, answer me!"

"Agent Scully?" came the hesitant, whispered response. I froze.

"Who is this?"

"Agent Scully. It's me--Gibson."

 


	4. Departure

* * *

So much for our vaunted ratiocinative powers; despite the countless years of expensive universities, Quantico's rigorous programs, and our experience and training in the investigatory field, in the end the damned Amazing Brainiac kid found us instead of the other way around.

The drowsy delirium of desire was slapped out of me as effectively as if I'd had a bucket of ice water dumped on me. I bolted upright.

"Gibson?! Gibson, where are you?"

At the mention of the name, Mulder too snapped out of his stupor. The only one of us who was at all calm, cool or collected was Gibson himself; his voice, over the distance, was infuriatingly nonchalant.

"I'm at a pay phone outside a Quik-Stop Food Mart."

"Are you hurt?" I demanded. "How did you get there?"

"I'm okay. I walked until I found a place that had a phone."

By now Mulder was all but having convulsions, arms flapping wildly. Five years had given me the winning edge in his peculiar brand of charades; I easily translated his frantic semaphoring as "cell phone--no--land line." Nodding at him I asked Gibson to give me the number of the pay phone. He did, and I clicked off my cell, turning briefly to Mulder.

"703-555-4872--"

"Alexandria," he muttered.

"It's a Quik-Stop convenience store."

He already had his cell in hand as I grabbed up the room's phone and dialed the number. Gibson picked it up on the first ring.

"How did you get away?" I asked without preamble. The kid was

positively blase.

"I told you--I walked. They had me at this laboratory place--all these old guys, and this one guy that chain-smokes all the time, and that Russian guy with the fake arm that Agent Mulder beats up a lot." His tone became confidential. "That guy really hates Agent Mulder. Anyway, they had me there, and there were all these doctors and stuff, and they did all these tests--the same stupid tests you did. But they didn't hurt me or anything. They think I can help them with their stupid Project." I could hear the capitalization plainly.

"What Project?"

"Something about Colonization." I've never heard a 12-year-old convey such disdain. "It's like out of some bad movie."

"How did you get away?"

"I waited till they all left for the night, then I broke a window and climbed out."

"Wasn't there an alarm? Or a guard?"

"Yeah."

"Then how'd you get away?"

"It was easy," he said, as if I should've known. "I just told him not to see me."

"That kid," said Mulder grimly, hanging up the phone, "knows too much."

"For his own sake, I can only hope he learns a bit of discretion as he gets older."

"If he lives that long."

"You got in touch with the Gunmen?"

"Yeah. Frohike's going to drive down to Alexandria and pick him up. They'll keep him safe until we get there." With noticeable reluctance he heaved himself up out of bed and offered me a hand and a lopsided smile. "To be continued?"

"At our earliest possible opportunity," I assured him, stepping into his arms. The man's lips warranted registry as a controlled substance; already I was hooked. "Will it be safe to go back to our apartments, do you think?"

"Probably, but I'd rather not. The guys are gonna set up a safe house for us."

"Safer than the last one, I hope." I shuddered, remembering Diana.

He was already slinging things into a bag, the Mulder version of packing. "I'm guessing it'll be about five, five-thirty when we get back to the DC area. The guys can babysit while we get some rest. And then..."

"And then?" I prompted. "What are we going to do next, Mulder?"

"The same thing we do every day, Scully. Plot to save the world from being taken over."

The drive back was infinitely more pleasurable than the drive down.

We've logged a lot of road time together, Mulder and I. I'd go so far as to say that our relationship--professional and personal--was both born and nurtured on the road, in an endless succession of Lariat rentals, on the way between here, there and everywhere. In those cars we have discussed everything from case files to the meaning of life; autopsy data, abduction scenarios, song lyrics, batting averages, favorite movies, philosophy, religion, magic, what to have for dinner. In those cars--usually Ford Tauruses, with the occasional Crown Victoria thrown in for variety--we have defined and redefined and refined ourselves, separately and together, over and over again. We've eaten in cars, slept in cars, fought in cars, wept in cars, bled in cars, nearly died in cars.

There is one thing we haven't done yet in a car--or anywhere else, for that matter. Anticipation brought heated blood to my cheeks as I studied Mulder, openly now, as we drove.

He is beautiful--and is made even more so, perhaps, by his seeming lack of awareness of it. He was curiously relaxed as we drove, as serene as I can ever recall seeing him; astonishing, when you consider the circumstances under which we were making the trip. He drove easily, left hand on the wheel, right hand fiddling with the radio, a soda bottle, my knee. Still rumpled from our abortive romp, his hair was spiky, his shirt wrinkled, in all resembling the unmade bed we left behind. Nothing and no one has ever looked better to me. My feeling for him was so enormous I wondered that I could contain it.

He's a piece of work, my Mulder, a mixed bag of contradictions and inconsistencies, a bona fide loose cannon veering wildly from extreme to extreme. Sometimes just looking at him is exhausting, gripped as he so often is by that frenetic, single-minded energy that tends to leave us mere mortals gaping after him, lost. His intensity, his arrogance, his infuriating self-centeredness are balanced and tempered by fierce compassion, unswerving loyalty and--unbelievably--crushing insecurity. For all his irritating qualities--and trust me, they are legion--I've never met a man more

deserving of respect, and love...or more blind to the simple truth of that worthiness.

But what fun I'm going to have, convincing him!

He channel-surfed until he came across a station we both liked, and we listened in silent thrall as Donald Fagen's voice swirled around us in the dark:

"...This is the night of the expanding man

I take one last drag as I approach the stand:

I cried when I wrote this song

sue me if I play too long

This brother is free--

I'll be what I want to be

I learned to work the saxophone

I play just what I feel;

drink Scotch whiskey all night long

and die behind the wheel--

They've got a name for the winners in the world

I want a name when I lose

they call Alabama the Crimson Tide:

Call me Deacon Blues..."

I realized that I'd been singing along, softly, and that Mulder was looking at me as though this were a profound revelation. "You never told me you were a Steely Dan fan, Scully. What's your favorite song?"

"That one."

"No way! Why that song?"

Because it reminds me of you? "I don't know, Mulder. I like it. It's...soothing."

"Soothing? It's about a condemned man, probably on his way to the gas chamber!"

"I know, but he's obviously made his peace with it. There is even a certain nobility to the protagonist. Besides, it's just a really cool song."

"You never cease to amaze me, Scully."

"Oh, I'm just getting started."

He threw on the brakes then, right in the middle of I-95, pulled me halfway into his lap and kissed me until I was literally gasping for breath.

"What was that for?" I finally managed to ask.

"Because now I can," he chuckled, and we drove on into the night.

Frohike looked even less delighted to see us than he had at our last meeting, if that were possible.

"Where is he?" Mulder asked.

"Sleeping. Can I ask you something, Mulder?"

"Sure, what?"

"Are you positive that you and your delectable little partner there didn't run off and reproduce when we weren't looking? Because I've gotta tell ya, that kid's a big enough pain the posterior to be the spawn of you two."

I couldn't help it; I had to turn away to smother a smile. Mulder, however, was not so amused.

"Considering what those fuckers are capable of cooking up in their petri dishes these days, I'm not so sure about anything anymore."

We were roused from our too-brief slumbers by the sounds of heated argument.

"Well, you ARE a dirty old man, Fro," Langly's voice carried to us, insufferably smug. "You can't kill the kid for telling the truth."

"A very astute observation based on irrefutable evidence," Byers agreed cheerfully.

"Shut up! Shut up, all of you!" Frohike sounded like a furious elf.

"You were thinking about Agent Scully's--" Gibson began before someone shushed him. Intrigued, I padded out into the main room, closely followed by Mulder.

All four of them stopped dead when we entered, guilt coloring every face but Gibson's. He was all too clearly having the time of his life baiting them. I could easily see the appeal of that activity.

"Did we miss something?" I inquired.

"No--you're just in time to witness a murder," Frohike grumped. "When you said this kid was a damn mind reader you weren't kidding."

"You're very popular," Gibson informed me, comandeering the computer game one of the Gunmen had vacated. "They all think you're hot."

"Nice blush, Scully," Langly jeered. "Most redheads can't do pink."

"So what are we all thinking, Gibson?" Mulder asked, and that gleam of insatiable curiosity was sparking in his eyes. Our pet telepath, or whatever he was, looked much put-upon but complied gamely with what had to be for him an all-too-familiar request.

"Mr. Langly is thinking this is all too funny. Mr. Byers is thinking about lunch and I''m not gonna tell you what Mr. Frohike's thinking 'cause you'd hit him. You're trying to block me out of your mind but it's not working--you're not doing it right. You're mostly thinking about finding those men who took me, but you're thinking about Agent Scully, too."

He swiveled his chair around to face me, his expression gone serious.

"And you're scared," he said simply. "You're afraid those men are going to find you and make you sick again."

All eyes turned to me.

Damned kid.

__________________________________________________________________________________

Lyrics are from "Deacon Blues," written by Donald Fagen and performed by Steely Dan.


	5. Homecoming

* * *

I've known the trio of oddities who staff the Lone Gunman zine for several years now; I thought then that they were the craziest batch of cranks I'd ever encountered, and in those intervening years I've had to revise that initial estimation only slightly.

They're still crazy, and they're still cranks; only now, they look a lot like saints, as well.

Wednesday night. We were gathered in--words fail me. It was one of the rooms in the Gunmen's rat-warren, one which could, by some surrealist standard, be classified as a "recreation room." There was a couch, where Mulder was planted; a desk, which I had momentarily claimed; a small refrigerator, a microwave, a stereo, VCR, TV. In front of this last object our young charge sat enthroned, Frohike and Langly flanking him. Byers, who apparently had an actual home elsewhere, had gone for the night.

Onscreen, South Park's police chief had just revealed the secret shame of his illiteracy and named the maniacal Eric Cartman as his deputy. I watched, more amused than I cared to let on, as Cartman pursued suspects on his Big Wheel, kneecapping them with his nightstick amongst admonitions to respect his "author-it-eye!"

"I wish he would've waited a little longer to escape," Mulder griped, sotto voce. Abandoning my paperwork, I moved to join him, praying the ratty sofa had been fumigated at least once within the decade. I couldn't help picturing this as Frohike's screening room.

"It was a less-than-auspicious moment," I agreed, sitting a bit closer to him than was necessary.

"I wasn't talking about--" Meeting my gaze he began to backpedal. "I mean, yeah, that too, but I really meant I wish he'd stayed there longer, learned a little more. Do you realize what his gift could mean to us in terms of bringing those bastards down for good?"

"You're right; there is much more he could've learned through continued exposure to them. But in terms of his safety, and the state of his mental health, I think it's best that he got out when he did."

Across the room, the future savior of all mankind, the small repository of the human brain's deepest potentials, thumped Frohike on the knee and bellowed gleefully, "This will teach you to respect MY AUTHOR-IT-EYE!"

Mulder turned back to me, somber.

"Don't be too sure about that, Scully."

After another hour and a half of South Park (courtesy of Langly's tape collection) had passed, Mulder stood and announced his intention of visiting his apartment.

Reassured, however curtly, that both our places had been swept multiple times and pronounced clean, Mulder made good his escape with me close on his heels. We departed to a manic chorus of "Oh my GOD, they killed Kenny!"

It sounded like Mulder muttered "You bastards" as he slammed the door behind us, but I couldn't say for sure.

If indeed They had visited Mulder's apartment, They had also covered their tracks admirably well; the place was in its customary state of controlled disarray, right down to the fine sheen of dust that adhered to every visible surface. Mulder started gathering up things while I provided a hasty burial-at-sea for the three deceased goldfish.

I was at the window, looking out at nothing, when his arms came around me from behind, catching me off-guard. Clearly the cartoon marathon to which we'd been subjected had engendered in Mulder a borderline psychotic state, for he nuzzled his mouth in near my ear and began to croon in a depraved parody of Isaac Hayes' lascivious Chef:

"Wooo-man!

I want to lay your body down

on my leather so-faaaa!

Gonna make sweet love to ya,

cover every inch of yo' body with--"

Snickering, I twisted in his grip so that we were face to--well, face to chest; even my highest heels don't quite put me face-to-face with Mulder, and the Nikes I wore at the moment were less than no help at all. I corrected the

height differential as best I could by tilting my head back and rising to the balls of my feet. Those ballet lessons Mom made me take as a child were finally beginning to pay off.

Mulder cupped my face in both hands, turning the full force of his too-rare smile upon me. "Have I mentioned lately how very glad I am that bastard Blevins assigned you to spy on me?"

"I don't believe you've ever expressed that sentiment before."

"No? Hmmm...should I take this time to demonstrate my appreciation?"

"If I were more cynical I'd swear this whole trip was just a ruse to get me alone."

"Apparently you're more cynical than you realize. That's exactly what it was."

"I'm flattered. Now, um, didn't we have some unfinished business that needed attention?"

"Shall we adjourn to the bedroom?"

Mulder's bedroom. The final frontier. He used it so little, preferring the couch, that I was surprised even his capacious memory kept a record of it.

"Just let me...move a few things." He was shoving boxes, bags, file folders off the bed onto the floor. "There!" He flapped the comforter back, thumped the pillows in a vain attempt at fluffing them, then cast himself down, rolling onto his side and gazing at me invitingly. "Would you care to join me?"

My moment of truth was at hand.

I can state, without hyperbole and in all earnestness, that I have never been so nervous about a first time before. Not even the first time.

Despite a Catholic upbringing, I've never had a particular guilt complex associated with my sexuality. I think perhaps it was my medical and scientific interests, coupled with a naturally pragmatic outlook, that saved me. My desires, and experimentations, unfolded as expected and developed normally enough, mercifully divorced of religious qualms or visions of the chasm of Hell yawning before me because I let Paul Richardson touch my breast after the junior prom. I wasn't especially sought after in high school or college, generally preferring my own company to that of the importunate boys who seemed to my oh-so-sophisticated and worldly eyes to be so very immature and foolish--but I had my share of offers, and I did on occasion condescend to date here and there along the way.

I had a reputation for coldness and aloofness even then, though truth be told it wasn't so much that as it was a certain intrinsic caution. All around me I saw girls tying themselves in knots for "love"--degrading themselves completely for the whims of some idiotic kid who was unable to discern the difference between the pliant paperdolls in the magazines under the mattress and the complexities of the living, feeling female right in front of him. And then there were the ones who got pregnant, effectively ending their lives' development before they'd even graduated. Some married; some dropped out, presumably to enter the realm of the single mother; still others just disappeared. I vowed early on that I wasn't going to be one of them.

I took my first lover at 21, and then only after an inordinate amount of consideration. I was determined to be prepared--physically, emotionally, psychologically--no matter what the consequences of my actions. One might say that I went about the whole business rather cold-bloodedly, but I've never had cause to regret it. While I was not madly in love with him, I liked and respected him, and long after we ceased to sleep together we remained close friends--remained in contact, in fact, until my work on the X-Files separated

me from any semblance of a social life.

Save for two or three aberrations--occasions of extraordinary spontaneity, which came upon me every so often--I have gone to the handful of mens' beds I have graced with that same amount of cautious consideration. Mulder was certainly no exception; I waited through five agonizing years of mounting tension before I was able to bring myself to make even the slightest of overtures. There was never any doubt that such was what I wanted, however; and once I'd determined to my satisfaction that Mulder wanted the same, the last of my reservations fled, leaving me looking forward at last in eagerness, rather than dread.

"We shouldn't stay out too long. I'm not so sure about leaving Gibson with only Frohike and Langly to watch over him."

"He'll be fine, Scully. He's as well-hidden at their office as he would be anywhere else."

This was a lie, and we both knew it; but having more pressing matters on my mind, I chose to let it slide.

Pausing only long enough to remove my shoes, I approached the bed purposefully and stretched out alongside my partner, not touching him.

"When did you know?" he asked quietly.

"What? That I found you attractive? About two seconds after I walked into your office the first time." That wasn't what he meant, of course; but something compelled me to stall him as I searched myself for the real answer. When did I know? From this perspective I was hard-pressed to conjure up a time when I didn't know.

"For me, it was when They took you." He spoke as if he'd never heard me. "But I couldn't admit it, even to myself, until your cancer was diagnosed. I wanted so badly to tell you, but..."

But. It has to be the saddest word in the English language.

"It was while you were in the gulag," I blurted, and knew it for truth as soon as I said it. "I had to quit pretending to myself that what I felt was just--concern for a friend. Mulder, when you walked into that hearing I...But things got in the way. Up until three nights ago, things always got in the way."

"Looks like the chain-smoking sack of shit finally did something good for us."

"Actually, it was seeing you with Agent Fowley that did it."

"Diana?" He was lost.

"At the hospital. I had Gibson's test results. I was going to show them to you, but you--I saw the two of you, in the office. You were holding her hands, and..." I trailed off, embarrassed. It all seemed so sophomoric, somehow, and so very long ago. "I left, and I sat in the car for I-don't-know-how-long, wrestling with myself and my feelings. And in the end, I couldn't do it. I called you on my cell phone and made up a story about needing to see you at the office. Stupid, huh?"

"You really are in love with me." He said it in such tones of awe and wonder that I couldn't help laughing.

"And here I thought I was the skeptical one. You were still having doubts?"

"You've taught me well, Scully. I just needed a bit of incontrovertible evidence."

Propping myself up on one arm, I leaned over him, sliding my other hand up under his t-shirt. "Let's see what else I can come up with by way of convincing you."

Making a low sound in his throat that was midway between a chuckle and a growl, Mulder pulled me down sprawling atop him, wrapping me in his arms and capturing my mouth with his. Already he was hard and ready and I pressed enthusiastically against him, inwardly cursing the soft barrier of our clothing. He was working at remedying that, however, tugging at the buttons of my henley preparatory to sliding it over my head and off me. Rising to my knees I straddled his hips, sitting up to grant him access to my breasts. My bra went sailing overboard with all due haste and then his hands were on me, tracing the contours of my swollen flesh, testing weight and texture.

My nervousness was only a distant memory. I felt almost feral as I rolled from him, fumbling with the closure on his jeans. Helping each other as best we could in our clumsy haste to be done with barriers, we shed the last of what lay between us and I was rewarded with the vista of his lovely naked body, exquisite in arousal.

"I've imagined this moment so many times that I don't even know where to begin," I confessed, trailing exploratory fingers down the length of him. Catching my hand he drew it up to place a solemn kiss in the center of my palm before enfolding it in his own, pressing it over his heart. His eyes found mine and held, dark and plaintive as his voice.

"I want to be inside you."

"You always have been."

No further preliminaries were necessary, for either of us; slipping catlike upon him I positioned myself above him and reached between our straining bodies to take him in hand and guide him home. Moving in sync we came together, finally, lost each to the other. The feel of his heartbeat within me drove away my last rational thought and I fell upon him, drowning.

I came back to myself slowly, conscious thought returning along with more normal respiratory rhythms. We lay together in a tangle of glistening limbs and sweat-soaked sheets, my head pillowed on his shoulder, his arms draped loosely around me. I don't know how long we basked before the soft snick of an opening door forced its way into our idyll; the next sound to reach our ears was the lockjawed grate of our superior:

"Is this a bad time, Agents? Because I assure you, I do not want to have to come back later."

There have to be worse things in life than having your boss catch you in bed with your partner; but at the time, I swear I couldn't think of any.

 


	6. In Flagrante

* * *

_In flagrante delicto_\--a lovely Latin-legalese term with but one essential meaning: caught in the act. Hardly a new concept for one in my line of work, but never before had its full import been impressed upon me more clearly.

Instinctively I grabbed the sheet, yanking it over and around me like a winding shroud--not an inappropriate analogy as visions of the death of my career, my hard-won professionalism, and my dignity flickered rapidly across the screen of my imagination. My action, however, had the unconsidered side-effect of leaving Mulder fully exposed, which was hardly desirable at the time. He thrust himself violently away from me, with the inevitable result: over the edge he went, hitting the wood floor with a thump that must've felt even more painful than it sounded. A miserable small-voiced "Ow, shit" floated up to hang in the charged air.

A muscle worked in Skinner's jaw and I stared at it, inordinately fascinated. Surely the man's face would crack if he kept it clenched up like that much longer. I swear his mouth moved not at all as he issued his next curt pronouncement; Edgar Bergen could've learned much under Walter Skinner's tutelage.

"Get dressed. I'll wait in the living room." He paused. "Do you have anything to drink around here, Agent Mulder?"

Dimly came the response: "Ah, God, I think I broke my ass."

The muscle twitched harder. "Patch him up, Agent Scully, then get both your asses out here--broken or no." And he turned and stalked out of the room.

Dear Mother of God, was that a smirk I saw escape before he turned away?

It was ninth grade all over again, sitting in the principal's office awaiting sentence. I half-expected our mothers to come swooping in, squawking and scolding and bearing us away to our just punishments. For once it seemed a good thing that both our fathers were dead; maybe we'd escape a spanking this time.

Although I wouldn't necessarily put it past Skinner...

Remember those letters of resignation we, in our righteous indignation, had intended to submit days before? Well, we didn't--meaning we'd essentially gone AWOL in the midst of an ongoing investigation. That we'd been continuing the investigation in the interim was immaterial. Add to all that the fact that we'd not only been caught, but caught naked, in bed, by our superior, and even the charming military acronym FUBAR ceases to cover the depth of the doo-doo in which we'd landed.

Goodbye, Special Agent Dana K. Scully MD. Hello, "Welcome to McDonald's, would you like a 'Teeny Beanie Baby Happy Meal' today?"

Skinner, as expected, commenced to rant.

"Cut the crap, you two! You're acting like a couple of sniveling schoolkids and I don't have the time for it."

Apparently Gibson wasn't the only mindreader in town. I stared up at my boss, mesmerized; the mouse must feel like that, beneath the cold unblinking eye of the cobra.

"This is not about how you choose to pass your personal time. Nor is it about the fact that you chose to disappear for three days in the midst of an ongoing investigation without informing anyone as to your whereabouts. I need to know where the Hell you've stashed the boy and what you intend to do with him."

I dared a glance at Mulder for the first time. His jaw was dragging the ground. Could we actually be getting away with it?

"Gibson Praise is in our custody, Sir," Mulder offered.

"Where?"

"He's safe, Sir."

"Is that so? Somehow, under the circumstances, I don't think handing the child over to a babysitter qualifies as keeping him 'safe'. His parents are en route from the Phillippines even as we speak, Agents, and they want some answers. I need to be able to give them those answers."

"The boy is at a safe house," Mulder said flatly, "and it is out contention that he needs to remain in protective custody until such a time as we can get to the bottom of this situation."

"Agent Spender is pushing for a formal inquiry into your actions as regards this case. I've managed to stall him this far, but I don't know how much longer I can hold him down. My advice to you both is that you get your asses back to work-- visibly--on this case, and pull the reins in on Spender yourselves. I'm running out of excuses here."

Mulder stood, signaling the end of the interview. "Tell Gibson's parents that he's safe, and that we are continuing to do everything in our power to ensure that he stays that way."

Taking the hint, Skinner rose. "I want you both in my office tomorrow at ten."

At the door he paused, hand on the knob, then turned to us once more.

"Watch your backs," he said, and was gone.

After a hasty and stilted-silent visit to my apartment we returned to Gunmen Central. The unexpected confrontation with Skinner had shattered the easy intimacy between us; walking back into the lair with the scent of our joining still upon me I felt thoroughly humiliated, and very alone. Mulder was being very careful not to touch me. He couldn't even bring himself to look at me.

"I'm gonna go take a shower," he muttered, disappearing hastily down the hall, and my demoralization was complete. He couldn't wait to wash me off him. I'm well-acquainted with Mulder's methods. He's always had a certain cleanliness-fetish. Whenever he feels himself sullied internally, his immediate answer is to try to wash it away--flawed logic assuming that if the outside is cleansed the inside will follow. I've fished him out of more than one bathtub in our time together--he doesn't even always bother to undress first--dried him off and done my damndest to put him back together again.

But not this time. This time I was the source of his despoilment.

At a loss, I wandered back to the "recreation" room and sat down, raking a hand through the ruins of my hair. I was torn between bursting into tears and breaking everything in sight. There's no telling which one I would've chosen if Gibson hadn't stepped into the room.

"What are you doing up? You should be sleeping."

"I heard you come in," he said, settling down beside me. "You're upset."

No use trying to put on a brave face for the Stupendous Yappi. "Yeah. Yeah, I am."

"So's he. He thinks it's his fault."

"What's his fault?"

"That you're upset. He thinks he embarrassed you in front of your boss and now you wish you hadn't--" He broke off, coloring slightly.

I turned to him, too tired and drained to start considering what he'd said. "How can you know that? He's not even in the room!"

Gibson shrugged. "Mr Mulder thinks really loud."

"I'll bet," I muttered. "But--I thought you had to have some kind of link to a person--to read their thoughts, I mean. Be in the same room, or on the phone, or something."

"Usually, but not always. It depends a lot on their feelings. If somebody's really upset, I can hear them from a long way off. Like you, when you came in. And him."

"Should I go talk to him?"

It should be taken as indicative of the extremity of my emotional upheaval that I was seeking romantic advice from a 12 year old. Gibson smiled, a little shyly.

"Yeah. Um, don't worry; I won't listen."

Now I was the one blushing. Patting his shoulder, I rose to find my lover. "Hey, Agent Scully?"

I turned.

"He likes you a lot more than he does that other girl."

The shower was still running full-blast when I slipped into the bathroom. It was so steamy I could barely discern the form which I sought. He was standing motionless under the pounding water, leaning up against the tile; he didn't notice me enter the room. Before I could lose my nerve I quickly shed my clothes. Pushing the curtain back, I stepped in behind him, wincing as the scalding spray needled my skin.

"Mulder?"

"You know, I gave up hope of ever having a 'normal' relationship years ago." He spoke into the wall. "I didn't intend to drag you down with me."

"Self-flagellation doesn't become you, Mulder. Are you gonna share the water with me?"

Accommodatingly he stepped back, flattening himself against the wall. Being careful to bring as much of my body into contact with his as possible, I edged forward, accustoming myself by slow degrees to the heat. He reacted, of course, as I had intended he should; though he held himself stiffly, I could feel him twitch, restraining himself.

"Unless you personally invited Skinner to come bear witness to the proceedings," I went on, in what I hoped was a conversational tone, "I can't see any way in Hell that this could possibly be construed as your fault." I held out a washcloth over my shoulder. "Wash my back?"

After a breathless beat I felt the cloth leave my hand; a moment later and it was gliding gently along my shoulderblades. "I guess I'm just enough of a romantic to want it all to be perfect for you."

"Well, I'm just enough of a realist to know that'll never happen--but I'm also enough of a romantic not to care." Turning, I moved to him, soapy against slick. A tentative smile was ticking the corners of his mouth; off my look it spread into his lovely, loopy grin.

"If I wanted normal, I'd've requested transfer long ago. Found myself a nice, normal--"

"--Boring--"

"--Boring pathologist and settled into a nice, normal, boring routine. I don't want normal. I want you."

"They have medication for that now, Scully."

If I'd known going insane would be this much fun, I'd have gone a lot sooner.

The water began to steadily drop in temperature and we scurried to complete our washing, finishing up just as the first icy stings began to strike. Slamming off the tap, Mulder reached past the curtain and hooked a towel, which he wrapped me in chivalrously. Fetching another for himself, he tucked it in around his waist before applying himself to the task of drying me off. One good turn deserves another; when he'd finished, I did the same for him, lingering on spots that seemed especially damp. I let my lips follow naturally in the paths my hands had taken; and by the time I was done he was shivering, and not from the cool air.

Our sleeping arrangements Chez Gunmen had not been discussed. I knew there had to be at least one spare room, maybe more, beyond the one allotted to Gibson. I'd already ascertained--to a mixture of amusement and horror--that Frohike and Langly had bunk beds in a room off the central hallway. Looking to Mulder for guidance, I was relieved to discover that he seemed to know where to go; still wrapped in our towels, we paraded back down the hall, hung a left, back through the rec room and down another subsidiary hallway.

At the far end was a door that opened into a small room sparsely furnished with a single bed, a night stand with a lamp, and a chair. Naked we spooned together and I was overcome by a sense of how right, how perfectly natural, it felt to be that way together. Mulder and I were already so much a part of one another that it seemed, corny as it sounds, that we had always been this way.

I was almost asleep when Mulder's soft voice insinuated itself into my trance.

"Scully?"

"Yeah?"

"How are we going to explain this to Frohike?"

 


	7. Sidetracked

* * *

Psychic powers are contagious; I know this because Frohike had obviously acquired some by the time we awoke and stumbled, bleary and disheveled, into the kitchen. One look into his stormy countenance told me he'd already caught on to the enhanced nature of Mulder's and my partnership. He averted his gaze as he wordlessly plopped a plateful of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of me, and once again I felt a queer little niggle of guilt.

Such an absurd figure, our Frohike, garbed as he was that morning in horrifying paisley pajamas and an apron exhorting the viewer to "Kiss the Cook!" For an insane moment I wanted to do just that--kiss him, and rumple his remaining threads of hair, anything to take away his mute expression of betrayal. Having served me he slammed a plate down for Mulder, and the glare he delivered along with the food shocked me. If looks could indeed kill, my partner would've been flayed to the bone.

Gibson's eyes were tracking us all avidly, like a spectator's at a tennis match. We were entirely too entertaining for the boy's good.

Poor Frohike. Although I'd never say it, I am fond of him; I've grown fond of all the Gunmen. They may be kooks, but they're loyal kooks, and trustworthy--and God knows, in our position, people like that are few indeed. Frohike may be--Hell, he is--a lecherous, perverse little troll; but deep down he is a good man, and a genuine friend. There is very little, I believe, that he wouldn't do for Mulder, or for me. I'll never forget that horrible time several years ago, when Mulder went to New Mexico and was reported dead. Frohike came to me, half-drunk and so clearly grieving the loss of his friend...There's a depth of feeling there, well-camouflaged, that can't be dismissed so easily. He is, himself, a redwood among mere sprouts.

These thoughts chased round and round as I picked at my breakfast. A surreptitious motion across the table caught my attention; Gibson regarded me steadily and mouthed the words "tell him," inclining his head ever so slightly in the direction of our makeshift chef.

Damn that kid!

To the surprise of everyone, myself included, I rose from the table and strode purposefully across the room, feeling every bit as ludicrous as I'm sure I must have looked. A light touch on the arm brought Frohike around, however reluctantly, to face me; the sound of the collective jaw-drop was audible as I put my arms around him and hugged him hard.

"I can't thank you enough," I said quietly, willing him to understand. "For everything."

Awkwardly, deathly embarrassed, he squeezed me back for a moment before setting me, so very gently, away from him. There was an unmistakable gleam in his eyes that I chose not to see.

"It's about time," he muttered, turning back to his stove; and I knew he wasn't talking about my expression of gratitude.

Two hours later, bathed and groomed and dressed in a proper suit for the first time in days, I stood once more outside the J. Edgar Hoover building, every inch the Federal Agent I'd worked so long at becoming. Mulder was at my side, impeccable as always. Outwardly it was as though nothing had changed, with not so much as a shared glance to betray us; and yet I was separately conscious of his every breath.

Gibson accompanied us; and the reason we now stood on the sidewalk like a trio of gawking tourists instead of entering the building to make our meeting with Skinner was because he had stopped us, looking as deeply troubled as I'd ever seen him.

"Something's wrong," he said flatly, stopping in his tracks and refusing to go further.

"What is it?"

"It's my parents. They're scared--but not about me." He paused, then topped this startling statement with another: "They're not my real parents, you know."

"No, we didn't know." Mulder leaned over a bit to address him. "You mean you were adopted?"

"Yeah. They never talk about it, but I know. They're pretty good at keeping me from hearing them, but sometimes I can anyway."

"What are they scared about, Gibson?" I asked him. He shook his head; the weak morning sun flashed off the lenses of his glasses, briefly dazzling me.

"Somebody's mad at them, because of me. Because I got away." And then he

did the unthinkable, a gesture I'd never expected from this odd, self-contained young man: he slipped a small hand, soft and slightly damp, into my own, turning naked beseeching eyes up to mine.

"Agent Scully," he whispered, "I'm afraid to go with them."

Helplessly I gathered him to me, his arms locking around my waist with panicky tightness. Over the top of his head I looked to Mulder; but he was as lost as I.

What choice did we have but to take him upstairs with us, and present him to his parents? I didn't want to; Mulder didn't want to; and Gibson wanted us to least of all. But there was no choice; there was no time. He went to them, and we had to let him go.

Not that Jackson and Donna Praise looked at all like one's imaginings of co-conspirators in a sinister international intrigue. They were a very average middle-class couple in their early forties--average of appearance, of dress and demeanor--no one would've given them a second glance on the street. She was a plain, slightly faded woman, worried creases etched deeply into her brow. Her husband had entered the inexorable middle-aged slide into baldness and fat; smile-lines bracketed his mouth, but he was not smiling now. His eyes were as troubled and shadowed as those of his son.

Skinner ushered them out of the inner sanctum, instructing them to stay put until he came to claim them. Shutting the door on the family reunion, he retreated back behind the barricade of his desk, indicating we should be seated. We sat, warily.

"I'm pulling you off this case," he announced, without preamble. Instantly Mulder and I began to rise, opening our mouths to protest; but at a lift of Skinner's hand we subsided as one, and he continued.

"We have a potential terrorist situation developing in Dallas," he went on. "I'm assigning you both to that team."

"Terrorism detail?" Mulder demanded. "Sir, I--"

"Agent Mulder. You and Agent Scully need to get the Hell out of Dodge for awhile. The X-Files are being closed and Agent Spender has already put the wheels in motion to have your actions in this present case investigated. It is--"

"It's a crock of shit!" Mulder spat. "It's a goddamn set-up! They're setting us up!"

"That's enough, Agent Mulder! I'm doing my damndest to help you both keep your jobs. I suggest you accept what's offered at this point." He stopped, palms flat on the desktop; and in the flash of an unguarded moment I saw an astonishing mix of emotions in our superior's eyes: frustration, anger, concern, perhaps even compassion. They were gone as soon as I'd seen them, the standard ex-Marine badass mask dropping firmly back in place. Darting a glance at Mulder, I asked when we were to leave.

"Tomorrow morning. You'll be working under SAC Darius Michaud."

He went on to brief us on the assignment, though I must admit I was only half-listening. My thoughts were still on Gibson, and his odd comment about his parents. As much as it repulsed me to think that those two people, who had been entrusted with the care of a child, could have anything but that child's best interests in mind, I had to at least entertain the possibility.

After an eternity of droning on about bomb threats in Dallas, Skinner dismissed us, asking us to send the Praises back in on our way out. As the parents moved past us into the office, Gibson hung back, looking from Mulder to me and back again. Gravely he offered a hand for Mulder to shake; turning next to me he gave me a shy, awkward hug--and as I held him, I had a thought, fairly shouted it in my mind, willing him to hear me. Wanting, so badly, to believe.

A name. And a number.

He heard me.

"Thank you, Agent Scully," he murmured, and closed the door behind him.

~~END~~

 

28 June 1998

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~End Notes to Enders Switch (from 1998)~~
> 
> When I began with the initial installment of this series, I had no inkling of what it was to become. A simple stand-alone story, with perhaps a single follow-up vignette...but something happened.
> 
> The feedback for part one was amazing; within thirty minutes of my posting it a dozen messages had flown in, wanting more. Those messages continued to arrive, and with each subsequent installment the response continued to grow. The story continued to grow, too.
> 
> "Enders Switch" was in many ways a departure for me. My usual inclination is toward character-study vignettes, with the occasional dash of sarcasm or smut for seasoning. I'd believed myself too lazy to write a longer story, or attempt an actual plot. What a wonderful feeling, to discover that your abilities exceed your expectations!
> 
> There is going to be a sequel; this story won't let me rest until it's told. Expect to see it begin publishing around the middle of July. (Note 2010: It never happened.)
> 
> To all those who've written me about ES, "thank you" is inadequate. Your encouragement and enthusiasm have made the process a joy from start to finish. If you haven't heard from me personally yet, you will; I'm still about two weeks behind on e-mail. Thanks for making the journey with me.
> 
> Finally, I'd like to dedicate ES in its entirety to two people: to Jaime (again!), because if it happened for me and Scully it could happen for you too; and to Dianis, for believing.
> 
> Ankh-em-Ma'at,
> 
> Gypsymuse
> 
> 28 June 1998


End file.
